


Magic's Spell, A Mystery

by misbegotten



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 04:52:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbegotten/pseuds/misbegotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Rum is a private eye, Belle is no femme fatale, and there's true love at stake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Nick's name is, of course, a nod to Nick and Nora, but this is more influenced by _The Big Sleep_ than _The Thin Man_.

Nicholas "Rum" Gold cracked his fingers in time with the thunder outside, and considered closing up shop early. His gun was clean, the bottle of whiskey on his desk had gone down a few inches, and there were no phone calls to answer. It was pouring rain, and the ache in his leg throbbed in time with each staccato burst of lightning. There wasn't much call for detecting in the rain.

Or maybe there was, because there was a soft knock on his door. "Come in," he called, and the door opened to reveal a slight figure silhouetted by a punch of lightning outside.

The girl -- no, woman -- came in after politely shaking her umbrella in the doorway, and stepped into the light. She was breathtaking, there was no doubt about it -- chestnut curls, wide blue eyes, and a hopeful expression, the kind that makes men want to do anything they can to have it turned on them. Rum wasn't one to fall hard for a pretty face, but if his breath quickened imperceptibly he chalked it up to the anticipation of a new case. "What can I do for you, Miss--?"

"French," the woman answered, approaching his desk. "Belle French."

Rum gestured to the chair in front of her, and she settled into it delicately, propping her umbrella on the side. "I need your help, Mr. Gold."

Rum considered her thoughtfully. "Help with what, Miss French?"

She leaned forward earnestly. "Help recovering a stolen item. A book, something very precious to me."

Rum flicked his fingers upward. "There's police for that, Miss French. I can give you the number for Sheriff Swan if you would like--"

"It's not a police matter," she interrupted, flushing. "It's a private affair, and I intend to keep it that way. You see, I know who stole the book. I don't want the law involved. I only want the book back."

He settled back into his chair. "Ah. And have you considered, er, 'buying' the book back?"

She flushed again. "The... perpetrator doesn't want money. He wants to marry me."

So it was like that. She was being blackmailed, a low form of villainy. What did the book contain, Rum wondered. Embarrassing photos? Family secrets? He got up from his chair and, hefting his cane, walked around the desk.

"Oh, your leg!" she exclaimed. "Are you injured?"

"Old wound," he said dismissively. "From my rum running days. Nothing that will hinder my work. I think I can help you, Miss French. Why don't you tell me more?"

If he got a little lost in her blue eyes during the telling, well, there was no one to reproach him.

***

Gaston LaFleur, an improbable sounding name if ever there was one, lived on the east side of Storybrooke in an apartment building that had seen better days. Setting aside Miss French's good looks, it was obvious that marrying her would also bring LaFleur a definite increase in social status. Rum had marked her good quality clothing, the simple but expensive jewelry that she wore, not to mention the hefty retainer check that she had handed over. Yes, LaFleur was definitely trying to move up in the world.

Rum didn't bother buzzing the apartment; he doubted the intercom system worked, and as it happened the lock on the front door of the building was already broken. Taking the steps to the second floor, he rapped his cane on the door of apartment 212 and was rewarded with a haughty, "Who's there?"

"Name's Gold," he responded. "I'm here to do business." When there was no movement behind the door, he added, "On behalf of Belle French."

The lock unbolted and the door swung open before him. LaFleur was a good-looking thug, sharply dressed for someone on the down and outs, but the apartment behind him was shabby and ill-kempt. "May I come in?" Rum asked, pushing his way forward without waiting for an answer.

"Hey, you can't just barge in here," LaFleur protested, but he made no move to stop Rum. Closing the door, LaFleur pawed in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and shook one out. "What do you want?" he said, lighting the cigarette.

Rum considered LaFleur, whose hand was shaking slightly as he took a drag on the cigarette. "I'm here for the book," Rum told him.

A sour look crossed LaFleur's face. "And who are you?"

"Just a private detective Miss French hired to deal with a little trash."

"Why you--" LaFleur swung an arm out, but Rum blocked him neatly with his cane. LaFleur stepped back, rubbing his arm and glaring at Rum. "So Belle sent a private dick. Tell her I deal with her and nobody else."

"Miss French does not wish to speak with you," Rum told him evenly. "She doesn't want anything to do with you."

"She'll deal with me or I--" LaFleur was interrupted by a knock on the door, and irritably he swung around. "It's like a freakin' train station in here today," he said as he opened the door.

Rum's hand was on his gun as soon as the shot rang out, but he got tangled at the door by LaFleur's falling body. A quick glance outside showed that the shooter had already gone, and LaFleur was gasping his last as Rum eased him to the floor.

"Tell Belle," LaFleur choked. "The book isn't here. I--"

He never finished the sentence.

Knowing that he had little time before the police arrived, Rum searched LaFleur's body quickly. Inside his breast pocket was a business card, blank except for an embossed black apple and the words "The Mills," on it.

Regina, Rum thought grimly.


	2. Chapter 2

The Mills, where Regina Mills held sway, lay on the outskirts of Storybrooke, just inside the city lines but seemingly out of touch of the law. It was a gambling house, catering to the rich and privileged, where fortunes were lost and made in a single night. Mills herself was a mysterious figure, well-polished but, it was said, with a poor background. There was no evidence of that tonight, when Rum walked in. She was holding court at the blackjack table, dressed in an deep purple gown with enough cleavage to be almost indecent, but an air of elegance. She watched impassively as the dealer turned up twenty, neatly beating a patron's nineteen.

Rum advanced on the blackjack table, but was caught up short when he spied Belle French at the bar on the far end of the room. Veering direction, he sat down on the chair next to her and signaled the bartender for a whiskey. "Miss French," he said politely, noting that she was drinking seltzer water and looking very out of place. "What are you doing here?"

Belle had startled when he sat down, but she turned a smile upon him. "Mr. Gold. It's a pleasure to see you." She sipped her drink nervously. "I suppose it's too early to ask if you have any news?"

Rum tossed off his drink and set the glass down firmly. "I'm afraid I do. Bad news. Your erstwhile fiance is dead."

"Dead!" Belle paled. "What happened?"

"Somebody shot him before he could talk to me," Rum observed.

Belle pushed her glass aside and put a hand to her forehead. "Poor Gaston." Her concern for her blackmailer was curious; could she really be as genuine as she seemed, Rum wondered. "And the book?" she asked tentatively.

"He didn't have it. But I'm still working on it. If you don't mind me asking, Miss French, what are you doing in a place like The Mills? You don't seem the gambling type."

Belle's lips twisted into a tired smile. "I'm not. But my father is." She nodded her head towards the roulette wheel. "That's him, there."

Mr. French was a big man, but he seemed to shrink visibly before Rum's eyes as the roulette ball came up black against French's bet on red. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top and he was sweating profusely, hands shaking as his pile of chips shrank. Roulette was a fool's game, Rum thought idly, especially in a place like The Mills where rumors of cheating were whispered but never spoken aloud for fear of repercussions from Regina's thugs.

"Let me talk to Regina for a moment, and then I'll help you get your father out of here," Rum offered.

"Oh, Mr. Gold, thank you so much." Belle placed a hand on top of his, and a frisson of _something_ went through him. This woman was going to be trouble, he thought. But more trouble than he could handle?

Rum slid away from the bar and resumed his course towards Regina, who had moved to the door that led to her office. "Regina, let's talk."

Regina curled her lip in disdain. "Why would I want to talk to you, Rum?"

Rum pulled the business card he'd taken from LaFleur's body out of his pocket and flicked it in Regina's direction. "Gaston LaFleur is dead," he said.

Something passed through Regina's dark eyes, and she inclined her head towards the door. Rum went in, Regina following and shutting the door behind them. She seated herself behind a heavy oak desk and considered Rum thoughtfully. "And why should I care if a two-bit hood like LaFleur is dead?" she asked.

Rum stretched out his bad leg and sighed. "Let's not play games, Regina. LaFleur had something you want, if I'm not mistaken. Why else would he have your business card on him?"

Regina leaned forward slightly. "And you have it now, is that it? What do you want for it?"

"Answers," Rum countered. "What's so important about it?"

Regina's smile turned shark-like. "You _don't_ have it," she said. She tapped a finger against the desk. "Come back to me when you do," she said, "And I'll make sure it's worth your while."

"I already have a client," Rum said, pushing himself out of the chair with the help of his cane. "But I'll keep your offer in mind."

"Do that," Regina snapped.

Rum stood outside of Regina's office, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He _did_ need answers. It was time to get more information from his client about this book.

His client was at the roulette table at the moment, talking urgently to her father. She put a hand on his arm, and he snarled and pushed her away so that she nearly fell. Rum was there in an instant to steady her, at the same time that he twisted a hand around Moe French's collar. "It's time to go home, Mr. French."

French choked as the collar tightened, but he managed to bite out, "Who the hell are you?"

"Just a friend of your daughter's. Now let's behave civilly and leave together, shall we?"

Belle put her hand on her father's arm again, tears threatening. "Please, Papa. Let's go."

French nodded his head reluctantly and Rum loosened his grip on the man's collar. French stumbled up from the table and, with some attempt at dignity, straightened his shirt and pulled his suit jacket up from the chair where he'd discarded it. Sliding the jacket on, he made his way unsteadily towards the door, flanked by Rum and Belle.

"We need to talk," Rum said to Belle as they escorted her father to his car.

Belle seemed not to hear him as she asked her father, "Are you okay to drive?"

"I am perfectly sober," French insisted, and Rum thought that perhaps he was. His shaking hands seemed to be adrenaline from the gambling, more than anything else. French slid behind the wheel of the car and started it noisily. "Good night," he said curtly, and Belle sighed softly as her father drove away.

"We need to talk," Rum repeated, and Belle tilted those guileless blue eyes up at him. Pushing aside the urge to take the invitation that seemed to lie therein, Rum put his hand on her elbow. "Out here, or back inside?"

Belle looked at the gambling house with disgust and squared her shoulders. "Your car?" she suggested, and Rum nodded, leading her to it. Once they were seated inside, Rum turned on the car to start the heater.

Belle rubbed her hands against the vent for a moment, then leaned back in the seat and sighed. "I haven't been entirely honest with you."

Rum raised an eyebrow; this was hardly a surprise. Clients told the truth only when it suited them, in his experience, and even someone as open as Belle had obviously held something back.

"The book isn't a family heirloom. It's more than that. It's magic."

With a sinking feeling, Rum wondered how he had not noticed that his beautiful client was a little crazy. "Magic," he said flatly. "Hocus pocus, abracadabra magic?"

Belle turned towards him and looked at him earnestly. "Magic as in power, power that musn't fall into the wrong hands. The book was given to me to guard, and I lost it. I must get it back, or there could be terrible consequences. Mr. Gold, you've got to help me."

Crazy or not, Belle was clearly distressed. If the book meant that much to her, he would find it. "I'll help you," he reassured her, taking her hands in his and squeezing them gently. "We'll find the book and you can do... whatever you need to do with it."

"Mr. Gold--"

"Call me Rum," he said, and she smiled. A man could go far on that smile.

"Rum. There's more that I should tell you. I don't know if you're ready to hear it, but you ought to know. I found you for a reason."

"Found me?" he asked. He was entranced by her lips, the way her tongue darted out and wetted them when she was nervous. "I'm in the phone book, dear."

"I've been looking for you for a long time," Belle continued, her face just inches from his.

What were the ethics of kissing a crazy client, Rum mused. Was it worse than taking her money?

"Well, I'm glad you found me then," he said, and closed the distance between them. Her lips yielded beneath his perfectly, and she gave a soft sigh as he deepened the kiss.

"Ah, young love," a voice said behind him as the car door was wrenched open, and Rum was dragged out by at least two pairs of arms. He could hear Belle struggling and shouting on the other side of the car, and he twisted in his captors' arms, kicking out once his legs were free of the car.

Brutal kicks answered his struggles, pointed boots connecting with his ribs and diaphragm, curling him inward. A booted foot pressed against his throat, choking him, and then there was a raised arm, a cudgel, and blackness.


End file.
